While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (20 page)

That had been the end of the betrothal, the friendship, and Lady Victoria’s reputation. Even a duke’s daughter couldn’t escape the taint of the scandal on her character—though everyone assured everyone else the beauty had been completely blameless—and Lady Victoria had been forced to marry far beneath her station, a country lord from Ireland.

Now Winterbourne studied her, his gaze shrewd. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Francesca.”

She felt the pulsing tension radiating from him. Avoiding his stare, she nodded. Then his hand shot out, and she flinched instinctively, turning her cheek to avoid the brunt of the blow.

Of course, it never came.

Mortified, she opened her eyes, and saw he was holding a napkin filled with dried cherries. He lowered it with a frown. “What the devil was that?”

She felt the heat rising from her neck to her forehead. “Nothing. I’m sorry, my lord.” She scooted back.

“Ethan,” he corrected. “Did you think I would hit you?” He moved closer.

“No! I—” She shifted, and he grabbed her wrist. She gasped and saw him register her reaction.

“You’ve been hit before.”

Face burning, her mind raced for a plausible excuse.

“Who?” His warm fingers tightened on her wrist, grip firm but not painful. “Who hit you, Francesca?”

She jumped again at his harsh tone, and his hold on her wrist eased. Slowly, he drew her closer. “Tell me, Francesca.”

She couldn’t take her eyes from his—amber fire that warmed her through.

“No one,” she whispered.

He frowned and took her other hand in his. “Then why did you flinch and draw back?”

The blood pounded in her ears—his closeness, his questions—she couldn’t cope with them, couldn’t think.

“I-I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I—” Her voice broke and the words wouldn’t come out. Salty tears welled in her eyes. He released her wrists, and she felt his hands caress her arms. Then he tugged her gently, and she was in his embrace. His hand caressed her back, smoothed her hair away from her face, and all fear of him was gone. She was warm. Safe. Comforted.

“It’s all right.”

She barely recognized his voice. There was a tenderness in it she’d heard only in her imagination.

“Just don’t
cry
.”

She smiled shakily then because the order sounded more like him. She allowed him to hold her just a little longer, though she knew she shouldn’t. It felt so good to be in his arms, and she was so tired. She closed her eyes and drifted.

Several minutes later, she was jarred awake as he pushed her away and stood. “We’d better go,” he said, turning his back to her.

Lord, she’d almost fallen asleep in his arms!

Then her chest tightened as she realized that he didn’t seem to want her there. He’d felt sorry for her, pitied her, and she’d fallen into his embrace, tried to make it into something more. She was falling in love with him all over again, but the result would be the same as it was when they’d first met.

He did not want her.

She straightened her spine and tried not to think of his rejection. “Of course. Go ahead inside,” she said tonelessly. She darted a glance at the window. “I’ll be fine here.”

He swung around. “You’re not staying out here tonight.”

“Just a little longer.” She needed a few moments away from him to calm herself. “Nat will be here in a moment.” She glanced at the window as if her look alone could hurry the groom from his chores.

“You’ll go inside now or I wait with you. I sent your footman inside, and I won’t have you out here alone.”

She shook her head. “Lord Winterbourne—”

“Will you bloody well call me Ethan?” he shouted.

Francesca jumped off the blanket. “Do not shout,
Ethan
. You’ll scare the bunny.”

“Am I scaring
you
?” He stepped toward her. Once again, she felt the size of his presence, his overwhelming strength and masculinity. “Because I don’t think you’ve got it through your thick skull yet that you are in danger. The man who attacked you will come back.”

“I doubt that.” It seemed easier to deal with her fears if she denied them, ignored them.

“Don’t.”

She forced herself to keep her back to the window facing the crumbling Roman wall where she’d been attacked. She
had
drawn the curtain, hadn’t she? Instead of checking again, like some kind of obsessed lunatic, she turned from him to go to the rabbit. Caring for the bunny would take her mind from her fears.

His hand on her elbow stopped her. “There is a slight possibility you know this man, Francesca.”

She shook her head. The idea that someone she knew would do such a thing was ridiculous. Impossible.

“Yes.” He squeezed her elbow. “I’ve been talking to the servants, putting the facts together. It’s unlikely, but he might be a man of your acquaintance.”

She huffed. “That’s ludicrous.”

“It does seem far-fetched.” His hand moved to circle her upper arm, warm and steady. “On the other hand, it makes sense. The attack might have been random. But a passerby was quite lucky you were walking into the house at that moment. If it’s someone you know, then there was no luck. The attacker knows the estate grounds and your habits.” His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, and she tried to ignore the frisson of pleasure his touch produced. “He’ll want to finish what he started.”

Once again the image of the crumbling Roman wall flashed through her mind. She saw the outline of her attacker. Everything was black and hazy, too dark to see anything.

“You’re not safe until your attacker has been caught,” Winterbourne said.

She jerked her chin from his fingers. He was scaring her, making her remember the terror. “Lord Winterbourne—”

“Damn it! Call me Ethan or no one will believe this betrothal.”

“Good!” She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t
want
them to believe it.” And at that moment she meant it. She wanted to return to her normal life. A life without the Marquess of Winterbourne.

“And I don’t want to be told what to do like I’m twelve again instead of one and twenty,” she went on. “And I don’t want you here
investigating
everyone and scaring people and—and
confusing
me.”

He caught the tail of her hair in one hand, and his fingers grazed her neck. “Confusing you?”

His touch had a paralyzing effect. All thoughts of escaping him vanished. She couldn’t seem to remember why she’d wanted to get away from him in the first place, what she’d been so frightened of. Her gaze traced a slow path from his cravat to the strong angles of his jaw, over his sculpted bronze cheekbones, to the slow liquid snare of his amber eyes.

His gaze met hers, the gold flecks in his eyes pulling her in like sticky honey. Warm honey. Hot even. No one had ever stared at her like that, with a look she could only describe as unadulterated desire.

No one. Not even Roxbury.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, her body trembling when his fingers caressed her cheek. “Yes,” she breathed, finally answering his question. “You’re confusing me.”

He closed the distance between them, his hand sliding like silk to the back of her neck. His fingers cupped her head and tilted her face to his. “Then let me make everything perfectly clear.”

He bent down, firm, sensual lips inches from hers. “You are my responsibility while I’m here.” His voice was low and husky. “
Mine
. And until I leave, you’ll do as I say.”

“No, I won’t,” she murmured, lips whispering against his as she spoke. “I’ll—”

His lips skimmed against hers, stilling her protests. Pulsing heat seared through her body. She forgot what she’d been about to say and gave herself up to the sensation of his mouth on hers. At first there was just the gentle press of skin on skin, no movement. Then, with maddening slowness, his lips skated across hers, tracing the contours of her mouth, pressing firmly, then light as a summer breeze against her.

She was being drugged. As soon as she accustomed herself to one sensation, he changed tactics, introduced a new experience. He was teasing her, giving her just a taste of what a real kiss from him would be like.

Suddenly, the anticipation was too much. She wanted the full experience. Her hands came up and she fisted them in his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He groaned, and his arm circled her waist, dragging her against him. He was all muscles and hardness, his body taut with leashed power.

His mouth opened, and with a subtle pressure he parted her lips as well. His tongue swept inside, claiming her, his arm tightening around her at the same time. Francesca kissed him back, knowing it must be a dream, knowing that Ethan Caxton would never, in real life, be kissing her. But it felt so real, and it had been such a long time since she’d been kissed or held or—

Her whole body went rigid. An old image of Roxbury flickered through her mind. Her head was shoved against a rough iron gate while Roxbury’s mouth savaged hers. She could still taste the bitter blood on her lips as they began to bleed from the sharpness of his teeth.

She heaved the picture away with all her strength. “No!” she screamed. “Stop!”

“S
top!” Francesca screamed again. The panic threatened to drown her. She couldn’t breathe. Needing air, she snatched oxygen in large gulps. He released her instantly, stepping away. His expression was a mix of concern and...lust?

“No.” She took a step back then another. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t.” He held up his hands, palms out, the gesture one of harmless surrender. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Time and place tangled in her mind, but one thought remained constant.
Please don’t let him hit me. Please don’t let him strike.

Watching him warily, she retreated another step and stumbled into the table behind her. He reached for her, and she screamed, “
Don’t
touch me!”

He drew back.

Teetering, she regained her balance then shrank further away from him. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled uncontrolled down her cheeks. The details of his face blurred, but she didn’t miss the look of shock in his eyes.

Amber eyes, not ice blue. Roxbury’s eyes had been blue.

Oh, God.

Her trembling hands flew to her mouth. She felt them shaking against her lips as she traced the skin where only a moment before Ethan’s mouth had been on hers. What was she doing?

Her hands formed a steeple over her nose and mouth, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She wished she could disappear before she died of humiliation. What had she done? How could she have mistaken him for Roxbury?

“Please leave.” Her voice was muffled behind her hands. She was mad—suffering from hysteria. She’d thought it all behind her.

She’d been wrong.

“Please leave,” she said again. Her voice was almost a moan.

“Very well.” His tone was cautious. “Let’s go inside.”

She opened her eyes. He was standing in front of the fireplace where they’d sat on a blanket and shared a meal only minutes before. For the moment, he allowed her space, but she could see the way his fingers flexed, as though he fought the urge to bridge the widening gap between them and take her in his arms. Oh, how she wanted him to hold her again. Kiss her again. Make everything better. It hadn’t been a dream. He’d really been kissing her. And she’d ruined everything.

She felt the sharp sting of fresh tears and bit the inside of her cheek to stave them off. Her body shook from fright and shame, and still her lips felt warm from the touch of his mouth.

She watched him step forward and then hesitate, battling to keep his distance, but she knew it wasn’t because he had the desire to enfold her in his arms. He acted on instinct, the instinct one human being had to comfort another. He didn’t want her. How could he, after the way she’d just behaved?

“Francesca, come inside.”

“Please just leave me alone.”

“No.” He took step toward her, and she had to fight the instinctive urge to shy away. “I’ll leave you alone when you’re safe.
Inside
.”

She put her fingers to her aching temples and began to massage. A moment later, she heard him pull the lone chair from beside the fire to the table. “Sit down.”

“Why?” She looked up, suspicious.

His mouth turned down in a frown, but she watched as he bit back the words he’d been about to say. Clearly he was not used to having his directives questioned. “Because we need to talk.”

“Please go.” She felt the drain of the past few hours and was afraid if he didn’t go soon she’d humiliate herself again, dissolving into yet another flood of tears. Her voice dropped. “I’m mortified enough as it is.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve had a perfectly normal reaction.”

She blinked. “I have?”

“Yes.” He put his hands on the back of the chair. “It’s completely understandable.”

“It is?”

How could
he
understand it?
She
barely understood, and Winterbourne didn’t even know about Roxbury. No one knew the real reason she’d broken off her engagement to the earl, though she had the feeling her father suspected.

“It’s my fault.”

Francesca gaped.

“After the attack last night—” His gaze darted to her face. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Understanding, quick as an afternoon summer shower, washed over her. “No,” she began. “It’s not—”

She stopped herself just in time. What had she been thinking? To correct his misassumption would mean revealing how pitiful and stupid she’d been in allowing Roxbury to treat her as he had. Winterbourne would lose what little respect he had for her. He would scorn her, and though he might never say it aloud, she would see the derision in his eyes. And suddenly it seemed she could bear anyone’s contempt but his.

“I’m fine,” she repeated. She didn’t like leaving him feeling to blame, but she couldn’t see any other way. “Please go.”

She saw his jaw tense, and he snatched the chair from under the table. “Sit down,” he growled.

She pressed her nails into her palm to keep from balking, reminding herself he wasn’t Roxbury. In all the time she had known Roxbury, she had never seen him accept blame or responsibility for anything. But here stood Winterbourne, blaming himself for her outburst. It was almost endearing.